Yesterday started out like any other day, with the potential of being a day filled with hope, productivity and love. But for me, with HD, all it takes is for something to flip a switch, and everything is overtaken by the worst feelings of despair and foreboding.
The smallest negative thought yesterday morning flipped my switch, stole my day of promise, and rammed my will into what felt like a barbed, cramped metal container. I spent all day trying to break out, to outsmart, to out-wait the sinister captor.
No sleep came to provide respite. No arms were available with the exclusive purpose of holding me. The only voice that I could hear was my own, and the best advice I could give myself was to wait it out.
It would relent at some point if I just waited it out.
Towards the end of the seemingly endless day, I sat on the same couch where the switch had flipped twelve hours before.
This time I was medicated for the evening and was prepared to distract myself with television images until I was sedated enough to go to sleep. An end-of-a-bad day game that had worked plenty of times before, but failed this time.
Instead, I acted impulsively and inappropriately then lashed out at my family. I stomped upstairs and flung myself into bed. My husband was at my side shortly, and I acted out some more.
Then I felt so ashamed about everything. I had spent all day trying to fight my way out of the metal container, and was only then hanging my head out to draw in desperate breaths of the reality I had so longed for.
But in my quest for it, I had tainted it.
Today I am tired.
My brain is like a floor filled with mousetraps and I’m afraid to take a step.